Lines,

ADDRESSED TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE, THE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST.

1824.

Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good
To carry two visages under one hood;

What should folk say to you? who have faces such plenty,

That from under one hood, you last night show'd us twenty!

Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth,

you

Are handsome or ugly, in age or in youth!
Man, woman, or child-a dog or a mouse?

Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house?
Each live thing, did I ask?--each dead implement, too,
A work-shop in your person,-saw, chisel, and screw!
Above all, are you one individual! I know
You must be at least Alexandre and Co.

But I think you're a troop-an assemblage-a mob,
And that I, as the Sheriff, should take up the job;
And instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse,
Must read you the Riot-Act, and bid you disperse.
ABBOTSFORD, 23d April.2

1" When Monsieur Alexandre, the celebrated ventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, he paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he entertained his distinguished host, and the other visiters, with his unrivalled imitations. Next morning, when he was about to depart, Sir Walter felt a good deal embarrassed as to the sort of acknowledgment he should offer; but at length, resolving that it would probably be most agreeable to the young foreigner to be paid in professional coin, if in any, he stepped aside for a few minutes, and, on returning, presented him with this epigram. The reader need hardly be reminded that Sir Walter Scott held the office of Sheriff of the county of Selkirk." -Scotch newspaper, 1830.

2 The lines, with this date, appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1824.

3 James Laing was one of the Depute-Clerks of the city of Edinburgh, and in his official connexion with the Police and the Council-Chamber, his name was a constant terror to evildoers. He died in February, 1806.

4 The Watch-hole.

Enter MEG DODDS, encircled by a crowd of unruly boys, whom a town's-officer is driving off.

THAT'S right, friend-drive the gaitlings back,

And lend yon muckle ane a whack;
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack,
Sae proud and saucy,

They scarce will let an auld wife walk
Upon your causey.

I've seen the day they would been scaur'd,
Wi' the Tolbooth, or wi' the Guard,
Or maybe wud hae some regard

For Jamie Laing-3
The Water-hole was right weel wared
On sic a gang.

But whar's the gude Tolbooths gane now? Whar's the auld Claught," wi' red and blue? Whar's Jamie Laing? and whar's John Doo ?7 And whar's the Weigh-house 18

Deil hae't I see but what is new,

Except the Playhouse!

Yoursells are changed frae head to heel,
There's some that
gar the causeway reel
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel,
And horses canterin',

Wha's fathers daunder'd hame as weel
Wi' lass and lantern.

Mysell being in the public line,

I look for howfs I kenn'd lang syne,
Whar gentles used to drink gude wine,
And eat cheap dinners;
But deil a soul gangs there to dine,
Of saints or sinners!

Fortune's and Hunter's 10 gane, alas! And Bayle's" is lost in empty space;

7 John Doo, or Dhu-a terrific-looking and high-spirited member of the Town Guard, and of whom there is a print by Kay, etched in 1784.

8 The Weigh-House, situated at the head of the West Bow, Lawnmarket, and which had long been looked upon as an encumbrance to the street, was demolished in order to make way for the royal procession to the Castle, which took place on the 22d of August, 1822.

9 Fortune's Tavern-a house on the west side of the Old

Stamp Office Close, High Street, and which was, in the early part of the last century, the mansion of the Earl of Eglintoun.-The Lord High Commissioner to the General Assembly of the day held his levees and dinners in this tavern.

10 Hunter's-another once much-frequented tavern, in Writer's Court, Royal Exchange.

11 Bayle's Tavern and Coffeehouse, originally on the North Bridge, east side, afterwards in Shakspeare Square, but removed to admit of the opening of Waterloo Place. Such was

6 The ancient Town Guard. The reduced remnant of this body of police was finally disbanded in 1817.

appeared in full dress, and nobody was admitted who had not a white neckcloth-then considered an indispensable insignium of a gentleman.

And now if folk would splice a brace,

Or crack a bottle,

They gang to a new-fangled place They ca' a Hottle.

The deevil hottle them for Meg!
They are sae greedy and sae gleg,
That if ye're served but wi' an egg,
(And that's puir pickin',)
In comes a chiel and makes a leg,

And charges chicken!

"And wha may ye be," gin ye speer, "That brings your auld-warld clavers here?" Troth, if there's onybody near

That kens the roads,

I'll haud ye Burgundy to beer,

He kens Meg Dodds.

I came a piece frae west o' Currie;
And, since I see you're in a hurry,
Your patience I'll nae langer worry,
But be sae crouse
As speak a word for ane Will Murray,'
That keeps this house.

Plays are auld-fashion'd things, in truth, And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth; Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth,

Or want of dramock, Although they speak but wi' their mouth, Not with their stamock.

But ye tak care of a' folk's pantry;
And surely to hae stooden sentry
Ower this big house, (that's far frae rent-free,)
For a lone sister,

Is claims as gude's to be a ventri—

How'st ca'd-loquister.

Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care, The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair; For gin they do, she tells you fair, And without failzie,

As sure as ever ye sit there,

The sages to disparage woman's power,
Say, beauty is a fair, but fading flower;-
1 cannot tell-I've small philosophy-
Yet, if it fades, it does not surely die,
But, like the violet, when decay'd in bloom,
Survives through many a year in rich perfume.
Witness our theme to-night, two ages gone,
A third wanes fast, since Mary fill'd the throne.
Brief was her bloom, with scarce one sunny day,
"Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay:
But when, while Scottish hearts and blood you
boast,

Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be lost?
O'er Mary's mem'ry the learn'd quarrel,
By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel,
Time's echo, old tradition, makes her name
The constant burden of his fault'ring theme;
In each old hall his grey-hair'd heralds tell
Of Mary's picture, and of Mary's cell,

And show-my fingers tingle at the thought-
The loads of tapestry which that poor Queen
wrought,

In vain did fate bestow a double dower
Of ev'ry ill that waits on rank and pow'r,
Of ev'ry ill on beauty that attends-
False ministers, false lovers, and false friends.
Spite of three wedlocks so completely curst,
They rose in ill from bad to worse, and worst,
In spite of errors-I dare not say more,
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his claymore.
In spite of all, however, humours vary,
There is a talisman in that word Mary,
That unto Scottish bosoms all and some
Is found the genuine open sesamum!
In history, ballad, poetry, or novel,
It charms alike the castle and the hovel,
Even you forgive me-who, demure and shy,
Gorge not each bait, nor stir at every fly,
Must rise to this, else in her ancient reign
The Rose of Scotland has survived in vain.

From Redgauntlet.

there, I cannot tell. The hand in which they are written is a beautiful Italian manuscript."-Dairsie Latimer's Journal, Chap. x.

As lords their labourers' hire delay,
Fate quits our toil with hopes to come,
Which, if far short of present pay,

Still owns a debt and names a sum.

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then,
Although a distant date be given;
Despair is treason towards man,
And blasphemy to Heaven.

From The Betrothed.

1825.

(1.)-SONG-SOLDIER WAKE.

I.

SOLDIER, wake-the day is peeping,
Honour ne'er was won in sleeping,
Never when the sunbeams still
Lay unreflected on the hill:
"Tis when they are glinted back
From axe and armour, spear and jack,
That they promise future story
Many a page of deathless glory.
Shields that are the foeman's terror,
Ever are the morning's mirror.

II.

Arm and up-the morning beam
Hath call'd the rustic to his team,

Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake,

Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake;

The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake-thy harvest, fame;
Thy study, conquest; war, thy game.
Shield, that would be foeman's terror,
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.
III.

Poor hire repays the rustic's pain;
More paltry still the sportsman's gain:
Vainest of all the student's theme
Ends in some metaphysic dream:
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd

Since first the peep of dawn has smiled;
And each is eagerer in his aim
Than he who barters life for fame.
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror!
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror.
Chap. xix.

(2.)-SONG-THE TRUTH OF WOMAN.

I.

WOMAN'S faith, and woman's trust-
Write the characters in dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.

II.

I have strain'd the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid;

I have weigh'd a grain of sand

'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;

I told my true love of the token,

How her faith proved light, and her word was

broken:

Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night.

Chap. xx.

(3.)-SONG-I ASKED OF MY HARP.

"THE minstrel took from his side a rote, and striking, from time to time, a Welsh descant, sung at others a lay, of which we can offer only a few fragments, literally translated from the ancient language in which they were chanted, premising that they are in that excursive symbolical style of poetry, which Taliessin, Llewarch, Hen, and other bards, had derived perhaps from the time of the Druids."

I ASK'D of my harp, "Who hath injured thy chords?" And she replied, "The crooked finger, which I mocked

in my tune,"

A blade of silver may be bended-a blade of steel

abideth

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.

The sweet taste of mead passeth from the lips,
But they are long corroded by the juice of wormwood;
The lamb is brought to the shambles, but the wolf
rangeth the mountain;

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.

I ask'd the red-hot iron, when it glimmer'd on the anvil.

"Wherefore glowest thou longer than the firebrand?” "I was born in the dark mine, and the brand in the pleasant greenwood."

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.

I ask'd the green oak of the assembly, wherefore its boughs were dry and sear'd like the horns of the stag;

An evil principle innate, Contending with our better fate, And oh! victorious still?

Howe'er it be, dispute is vain.

On all without thou hold'st thy reign,
Nor less on all within;

Each mortal passion's fierce career,
Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear,
Thou goadest into sin.

Whene'er a sunny gleam appears,
To brighten up our vale of tears,

Thou art not distant far;

"Mid such brief solace of our lives, Thou whett'st our very banquet-knives To tools of death and war.

Thus, from the moment of our birth,
Long as we linger on the earth,

Thou rul'st the fate of men;
Thine are the pangs of life's last hour,
And-who dare answer?-is thy power,
Dark Spirit! ended THEN?

"Therefore thus speaks my lady," the fair page he said,
And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head,
"Fling aside the good armour in which thou art clad,
And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead,
For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread:
And charge, thus attired, in the tournament dread,
And fight as thy wont is where most blood is shed,
And bring honour away, or remain with the dead."

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast, The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath kiss'd:

"Now bless'd be the moment, the messenger be blest! Much honour'd do I hold me in my lady's high behest; And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dress'd, To the best arm'd champion I will not veil my crest; But if I live and bear me well 'tis her turn to take the test."

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay of the Bloody Vest.

THE BLOODY VEST.